


Danse Macabre

by PumpkinWrites



Category: RWBY
Genre: Assassination, Ever wonder why there was an open council seat for Jacques and Robyn to run for?, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Nuts And Volts Week, Nuts and Volts Week 2020, Volume 7 didn't give me an Atlas ball so I wrote one myself, nuts and volts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22652359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinWrites/pseuds/PumpkinWrites
Summary: The Danse Macabre is an artistic genre from the Late Middle Ages, an allegory about the inevitability of death. A memento mori. In these works, skeletons escort the living to their graves in a lively waltz. Royalty and commoners alike join the dance, conveying that death comes for everyone, no matter your status or station in life.The orchestral tone poem of the same name is, as it turns out, also a waltz.
Relationships: Tyrian Callows/Arthur Watts
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: Nuts and Volts Week 2020





	Danse Macabre

Atlesian socialites just  _ adore _ their dramatic choices in themes for gatherings, and their tastes undoubtedly had spread down to Mantle, as this display at a ballroom in a hotel that had existed since  _ long _ before the city floating above them quite clearly proves. Citizens of all classes, mingling together in the cavernous room, the event held by the representative from Mantle to the Atlas council: as a way to “ease tensions” stemming from the closure of the kingdom’s borders and the embargo on dust putting pressure on Schnee, pressure that trickled down to its workers.

The idea had been simple: all were welcome, regardless of class, race, occupation. Wear your finest. Conceal your identity with a mask, there is to be no identification at a glance, so there will be no pressure to or not to speak to someone. The idea, of course, is on the surface not terrible, in fact some might even call it a good one. But those people would be sadly mistaken.

It’s laughable, really, that someone could think that a few hours of drinking and dancing could ever be enough to make these pitiful creatures forget the drudgery and depression of their daily lives. And the  _ masks _ . It would have been comical if it wasn’t so,  _ so _ painfully cliche.

Though, really, those just made their job here  _ so _ much easier.

The good doctor leans rather heavily on the wrought-iron railing, green eyes tracing over the truly voluptuous scene of the gathering below, exposed by holes in his mask doubling as eye sockets in the skull of a vulture. Appropriate, considering his current position: perched above the masses and peering down. The base of the mask is bone white, fading into a short, realistic beak, though the intricate gold overlay looks more like a human skull than that of a bird. But it had been the duality that had drawn him to it. Granted, the long black and hood are sorely lacking in originality, but he isn’t exactly here to show off.

“Now, where did you get off to?” he sighs, scanning the ballroom below from his vantage point on the balcony, before he spots Tyrian lurking at the bottom of the stairs. His partner has always looked ravishing in red, whatever form the color’s presence has taken on his body, and while the doctor didn’t exactly question the very long, very red coat’s practicality for hiding stains, he had worried that it would be a tad too flashy for their purposes. Though, it does make him easy to find. “There you are.”

_ Oh,  _ **_doctor_ ** … Tyrian giggles in his earpiece, and Arthur nods when he sees him glancing around.  _ The councilman’s on the dance floor. Perhaps you should come down here so that we can… go say  _ **_hello_ ** .

Arthur hums, but straightens from where he’s been leaned over the railing and smooths down his clothing before making his way down the staircase. He catches Tyrian around the waist as he passes him, pulling him around and in front of him, settling one hand on Tyrian’s waist and seizing his hand with the other. “If you insist.”

“ _ Dramatic _ ,” Tyrian coos, following the other’s lead and resting his free hand on the doctor’s shoulder. His eyes glitter dangerously purple in the sockets of his own skull mask, intricate gold filigree-inspired design over burgundy, dotted all over with tiny red dust crystals -- almost like blood oozing up from the pores of a face -- and edged around the pointed teeth and eye sockets with delicate red trim, still like blood. Part of the gold filigree is actually  _ rose _ gold, and the rose gold patch takes the shape of a scorpion spreading along his right cheek, with its tail curling up around the eye socket. “You know, doctor, I never did learn to  _ waltz _ .”

“You’re a quick learner,” Arthur replies easily. “You’ll figure it out.”

Despite his insistence that he didn’t know how to waltz, Tyrian is nothing short of graceful as they sweep into the fray, the pair of them turning around and around with the rest of the dancers as they make their way closer to their target. Every so often, when they brush too close to another pair, he feels a shift against his torso as the end of Tyrian’s tail flexes and flicks, catching hands and wrists and any expanse of skin that he can find. Nicks in the skin just innocuous enough not to betray the poison coursing through their bloodstream.

They keep it up, Tyrian striking at random before they twist away from their unknowing victims, for longer than the hunter thought he’d be allowed to before Arthur’s nails digging into his hand stops him.

“The councilman is behind you on the right side,” the doctor murmurs. Tyrian’s tail may be well-hidden, the majority of the length wrapped around his waist, but there’s not much hiding it when he strikes. “We can’t be striking at random and risk him noticing.”

Tyrian hums. “Can you get me in front of him?”

“Not yet. But…” He spins them a little more aggressively than probably necessary, and gives Tyrian a look at their target over his shoulder. “We’ll only have one shot. Do you see a target?”

“He’s kept his  _ whole _ neck exposed. I could just…” Arthur turns them again, and Tyrian actually growls. “Excuse me!”

“Can’t risk him seeing you.”

“I think you just like throwing me around.”

“I think you’re projecting.” Another spin, with far more flourish. “He’s just behind you. Take your shot.”

Tyrian beams brightly, and his tail whips out behind him. The councilman’s partner screeches loudly, and the pair scatters as the crowd does, recoiling back away from the scene. They’ve separated and successfully gotten lost in the horrified crowd before the councilman’s body even hits the floor. They make their runs for an exit as the crowd starts to, and their paths cross again at a staff entrance in the far corner of the room, ignored by panicking attendees making their own desperate runs for main doors. Arthur shoulders the door open and yanks Tyrian rather roughly through it behind him, slamming it shut and latching it with the bar meant to prevent guests from wandering into a staff stairwell as the hunter pulls open the door to what  _ used _ to be an electrical access panel, but was now just a small door to a very  _ convenient _ void in the wall where they’d stashed changes of clothes.

“The others should start dropping soon,” Tyrian giggles, pulling his red coat off and letting it fall to the floor, exposing his too-open yellow dress shirt and less-than-perfectly tailored black pants before he pulls his usual brown coat on. “With all that  _ adrenaline _ , I think most of them won’t make it out of the room.”

“Good.” Arthur drops his own coat on top of Tyrian’s discarded one, and rolls up the sleeves of his fittingly-sanguine purple dress shirt. He shrugs off his charcoal vest with its black paisley print and flips it inside out to the solid black of the other wearable side, fastening the second set of gold buttons very quickly before withdrawing his own black jacket from the void in the wall. “None of them are going to last more than a few days anyway.”

“Mmm!” Tyrian laughs as he wraps his tail around Arthur’s waist and yanks him closer in order to better reach his face. He pushes the doctor’s mask up a little, just enough to be out of the way, and crushes their lips together, digging his nails into Arthur’s neck as he does. When the hunter pulls away, he catches Arthur’s lower lip in his teeth for a moment before he lets go. “I think we’d better hurry back home. I don’t know how much longer I can stand looking at you dressed so nicely~ I might just  _ ravish _ you in the alley outside, instead of waiting for you to get it up enough to have your way with  _ me _ .”

“Your  _ preferences _ would disturb any other man,” the doctor points out, reaching up to pull his mask entirely off of his face now that Tyrian’s tongue is no longer down his throat. He doesn’t add that he  _ knows _ Tyrian isn’t that stupid: it’d be pointless to keep talking when their clock is ticking like this.

“Oh I  _ know _ !” The snickering that escapes Tyrian is wonderfully chaotic, as if he’s just had the most wicked of ideas, and he licks his lips as he removes his own mask to reveal his gold eyes dangerously dark, with his pupils blown wide. “I suppose I’m just  _ lucky _ that I’m stuck with  _ you _ ~”

“Those are your words, not mine.” Arthur hears the door behind them rattling, someone’s trying to get in. “Take the rooftops, I’ll make my way through the kitchens.”

“I’ll try not to have too much fun without you.” Tyrian grins, vaulting up over a slightly higher railing and out of sight, leaving the doctor to withdraw a vial of burn dust and tip it over their discarded coats, a flex of his aura igniting the clothing into a blaze too large to be jumped through before he takes off down the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Day two of nuts and volts week: CHECK!
> 
> This wasn't the original idea for this fic, but what I wanted was far more aesthetic and action-oriented than I thought I could do in twenty-four hours.


End file.
